


Reticent Romance

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M, Mute Dave, mute!dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Egbert is a pianist at a local dive bar. He lives a modest, middle-class life, and enjoys hanging out with his friends. Since he was hired–about a month or so ago–he’s seen all kinds of people. One person in particular, though, happens to catch his attention. He’s a vagabond, a drifter; and, even so, he always manages to come to the bar for a nightly drink. He never speaks; most of his time is spend watching John, actually...</p><p>That person, unbeknownst to John, is Dave Strider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **I tend to switch points of view a lot ~~'cause I'm a butt~~ , so chapter summaries are kind of important. I will not put a chapter summary up unless it's because I've skipped a buttload of time or I'm switching points of view. So, yeah, make sure to read those summaries! This chapter (chapter one) is from John's point of view. Enjoy (I guess).**

You’re not really surprised by the fact that you’re the first person to show up to work today. In fact, you’re usually the first person to arrive after a holiday. Most of your co-workers are probably at home, hungover and asleep. It’s no surprise, either, that the ground is beginning to take refuge beneath the gently falling snow. After all, it _is_ January.

No–what’s surprising about today is the fact that, as you approach your workplace, you see _him_. But, from experience, it’s far too early for him to be here… He only really shows up once it’s dark outside…

You place your song book on the ground and, after a moment of hesitation, carefully approach him. He shows no signs of recognition to your approach. However, as you get a bit closer, your ears pick up on the sound of his uneven, ragged breathing.

You chew on your lip for a moment and, after some quick consideration, return to gather your things. You unlock the door and flick on the lights; and, after setting the song book on the piano’s music stand, you return outside. Once more, you kneel beside the shivering figure. “You wanna’ come inside or something? It’s pretty cold out here.”

He raises his head to look at you; and, you can feel him studying you behind the odd tinted glasses he always wears. After a moment or so, he slowly nods. He staggers to his feet, still clutching the blanket about his thin frame, and follows you inside. Once inside, he collapses into his normal seat by the piano.

For a few minutes, an awkward silence hangs in the air. You find yourself thinking of all the rumours you’ve heard about him. People have said he’s everything from a murderer to a scam artist. As you look at him, though, you only see–well... You only really see _him_. You see his soft blonde hair and slightly crooked nose. In fact, from this angle, you even see his peculiar red eyes…

The sudden ringing bell of the coffee maker drags you away from your thoughts, returning you to reality. You prepare yourself a cup of coffee and, after a moment of reflection, glance towards him. “You want some?” you inquire, raising the coffee pot so that he can see it.

He frowns and raises a brow, pointing perplexedly towards himself, as if to uncertainly ask, “Me?”.

“No, I’m talking to the piano,” you laugh. “Yeah, you. You want some coffee?”

For a moment, you think you see a smile spreading across his normally inert features. It’s gone, though, before you can say for sure; and, he simply replies with a nod.

“You’re a quiet guy, you know,” you absent-mindedly comment as you reach for the sugar and milk. “Take anything in it?”

He looks at you for a moment and, after a few seconds of chewing on his lip, rises and wanders towards you, motioning for you to let him prepare his own brew.

You comply without protest, and take the opportunity to study the stranger. You start to notice small things about him. His lips seem to naturally fall into a slight frown, for example. What really interests you, though, is a small device at the base of his throat. The contraption–a brass box which, in size, is only slightly larger than a quarter–is secured by a single leather strap around his neck.

You end your observations there, though, seeing as you don’t want to seem too prying. “So… What can I call you?”

He looks up from his cup of coffee and frowns. After a few moments, though, he pulls out a pencil and tattered notebook. He scribbles something down on a blank page and hands it to you.

You glance down at the book and stare at the rapidly scribbled text. _dave and just hand back the book when youre done i can hear fine_. At first, you have no idea what he’s trying to say; it takes you a moment to realise that he’s eliminated punctuation to save time. Once you’ve realised that, though, the meaning become clear. “Nice name,” you reply, absent-mindedly handing him the book. “So… Why’re you writing down every–”

Before you can finish your question, he shoves the book back into your hands.

_i cant talk i mean i can but youll have to listen to my shitty voice_

“Aw, come on. Your voice can’t be that bad,” you chuckle.

He lowers his shades enough to level you with a cautionary glare. You notice a a small light flash to life on the box on his neck, and a quiet crackling noise seems to indicate that it’s ready for use.

“You sure you can deal with this shit?” The voice coming from him–or, rather, from the box–is anything but natural. It’s almost purely mechanical; only the slight Texan twang behind each word indicates that it belongs to a living being.

Despite the shock of hearing the voice, though, you don’t really find it that bad. Honestly, it’s a bit annoying and hard to understand, but it’s not the worst noise you’ve heard in your life. (In other words, it’s nothing compared Jade’s impression of a banshee.) “I’m sure,” you reply with a reassuring half-smile.

Again, a shadow of a grin flashes across his face; and, again, it’s gone before you can say it was certainly there. “Congrats. You’re the first person I’ve met who can put up with this thing. Hell, even I hate this thing…”

You attempt to reply to him; but, before you can, he glances up at the clock. He chugs the last bit of his coffee and, after grabbing his hole-ridden blanket, offers you a curt nod. “Thanks for this, dude. I’ll see you around, I guess.”

“No! Wait!” you call, staggering to your feet in an attempt to follow him. Before you’re even rise from your seat, though, he’s escaped through the oak wood double doors to the bar. You let forth a defeated sigh and, after a few moments, prepare to clean the coffee cup he’d left behind. Just as you’re about to rinse it out, though, you notice something inside. You carefully take out the contents and, after a bit of examination, recognise them to be a few crumpled dollar bills and a piece of paper. Upon unfolding the paper, you find a message: _i hope this is enough if its not ill pay back later thanks again for the drink_.

You can’t help but smile as you re-fold the page and count the money. Two dollars. After looking around to make sure no one else is watching, you slip the third dollar into the register with the two wrinkled bills. Without really realising that you’re doing so, you slip the crumpled note into your pocket. Then, you prepare yourself for another day of work…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name is John Egbert, and you have no clue what’s going on right now.
> 
> A few hours ago, you heard shouting outside of your row house. You heard some fighting. Something slammed against your door; and, when you went to see what it was, you found him. You found that odd drifter–who, three weeks ago, you'd given a cup of coffee after finding him freezing outside of the bar–at your door.
> 
> You have no clue who he really is; but, seeing as he _had_ been sprawled out and bleeding on your rather tiny front porch, you’d been fairly certain it’s safe to bring him in for now. You'd cleaned him up a bit and bandaged his wounds; and, you'd also managed to drag him into the guest bedroom. 
> 
> Now, you prepare yourself to deal with a likely-to-be long-term guest.

It's Sunday morning, and the first feeble rays of sun have just begun to shine through your dusty curtains. It's Sunday morning, and the last thing you'd normally consider doing at this time is fixing breakfast for yourself, much less for someone else. But, as you nervously nudge open the door to the guest room, you realise that that is _exactly what_ you are doing. You wait until there's enough space for you to enter; and, once there is, you hastily step inside. To your surprise, you find him sitting up in bed, awake.

And, for some reason, that's when it hits you… That's when you realise… “I never told you my name, did I?”

Without his glasses on, you can see his strangely attractive red eyes darting towards you. “No… I don’t believe you did, actually.”

You nod and, after mentally kicking yourself for not telling him that piece of information the first time you’d met him, set the meal down on the bedside table. “Well, in that case… I'm John. Nice to meet you, stranger,” you reply with a farcical grin. You want to keep things light; and, if that fails, at least you can entertain him while he's here.

To your surprise, your admittedly stupid “joke” (yes, with airquotes) seems to amuse him. In fact, for the first time since you've known him as anything more than a random bar patron, he smiles. It’s not one of those quick there-then-gone smiles he usually pulls, either. No–this time, it’s a _genuine smile_ ; and, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, it makes him even more attractive than he already is. You notice the steady buzzing of the box on his neck wavering a bit, making it seem as if he’s laughing; and, after calming down a bit, he replies. “Am I supposed to answer to that ridiculous gesture?”

“Not really,” you shrug. “Once you’re finished pissing your pants, you can have some breakfast. I made omelettes and found some apple juice…”

“Aren't you eating anything?” he asks, raising a blonde brow.

“I've already eaten. But, if you want me to stay here…”

He cuts you off before you can finish. “That’d be pretty cool.” Despite his rather passive reply, it's easy to see, even through your own penchant for occasional emotional aloofness and his robotic voice, that he's trying to mask his enthusiasm.

For a moment, though, you consider turning down the offer. You consider telling him that it had been a sarcastic question. After all, you have things to do. One look at him, though… One look at the eagerness in his eyes… You just can't do it; you can't bring yourself to say "no" to him; and, after heaving a sigh of semi-sincere annoyance, you pull the nearby desk chair up to his bedside. For a few minutes afterwards, an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. You listen to the sound of his breathing, which is amplified by the device, and watch as he ravenously devours his breakfast. As he finishes, though, you see an opportunity to lessen the awkward tension. You reach into your shirt sleeve and, after making sure he’s watching, pull forth–with quite a bit of flourish–a clean, white napkin. “You’re looking for this?”

The impromptu trick brings another smile to his face; but, to your disappointment, this one fades as quickly as it had appeared. “You do magic tricks? Neat. I wish I knew how to do that type of stuff. It’d keep people interested in talking for longer than five minutes, if nothing else.”

As he takes the napkin, you feel his hand brush against yours; and, for some reason, it sends a shiver down your spine. You quickly stifle the awkward feeling, though, by indulging in the newly revealed conversational opportunities. “I'm sure you have some other talents people’d find interesting," you counter honestly.

He shrugs and, after using the napkin, replies to your statement. “I mean… I play guitar and paint shitty pictures. Scare small children pretty easily… That’s about it, though.”

You frown and, despite his self-deprecating commentary on his musical skills, find yourself thinking of that old leather case in the storage closet. You motion for him to wait a moment as you go to retrieve it. To your surprise, it only takes you a second to find what you’re looking for and bring it back to him. You return, set the case down on the floor, pop open the brass clasps on its outer container and, to his wide-eyed amazement-pull out your father’s old acoustic guitar.

Despite its broken first string and dent-covered body, the way Dave stares at it makes it seem like it’s the holy grail of guitars. “You’re letting me have this?”

“Well… I don’t need it. Hell, I don’t even know how to play this thing. But, if you play one, you’ll be able to use it. I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind,” you shrug.

Another genuine smile–the second you know of–spreads across his face as he pushes his tray of now-consumed breakfast towards you; and, from this action, you conclude that he's had enough socialisation for the day. You really can't blame him, though; nor will you argue with him. Honestly, you're ready to leave. As has already been stated, you _do_ have things to do.

Thus, you take advantage of the opportunity, and quickly put away the time-tattered instrument. You gather everything that needs to be collection onto the tray; and, without a second thought, take your leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, comments and junk are welcome. Sorry for sucking at writing longer chapters. :|


	3. Chapter 3

You've started keeping a tally of the days since you brought Dave into your home. Today is day three…

You've procured two weeks off work; and, at least for now, your main goal is to nurse this stranger back to health. 

Stranger… Perhaps “stranger” is the wrong word, for you can’t help but feel like you know him. He seems, oddly enough, like a distant friend–like someone you knew long ago, but have since forgotten… In fact, you could muse forever about how strange he is. He’s gone from being a quiet bar patron to being talkative in his very own sense of the word. He’ll babble for an hour or so; then, he’ll go back to writing things down and communicating through distinct but, at least to you, indiscernible hand motions.

He’s probably one of the most confusing people you've ever had the chance to meet; and, somehow, it intrigues you. It fascinates you how he seems to take everything that gets thrown at him and throw it right back…

You haven’t had many chances to talk to him in the past two days. But, now, as he settles down in the adjacent armchair, you realise that you finally have a chance to just that; you finally have an opportunity to get to know him.

Before you can say anything to him, though, he begins to do those peculiar hand motions again. In what seems like one fluid motion, he points at you; then, with both hands posed as if they were pointing, he rapidly draws two circles in the air. To him, it seems to make perfect sense. To you, though, it looks like he’s trying to pedal a goddamn bike backwards.

Fortunately for you, he seems to quickly pick up on your unmitigated confusion. The increasingly familiar sound of his artificial voice starting up registers in your mind; and, moments later, he starts to explain himself.

“I'm asking if you sign, just so you know. You seem to think that…”

“You want to run me over with with a bike going backwards?” you, quite honestly, interject.

He seems to laugh a bit in reply to your statement. “Well… That’s the most creative interpretation I've ever heard, and I'd love to stick with that one. But, no, I was asking if you know sign.”

(If you were on the internet, this is probably where you'd say "welp".) You knew what he was talking about; and, now, you have no clue. “Um… If I know what?”

An exasperated sigh escapes him; and, it dawns on you that he’s probably had to explain this to more than one person. “Sign is short for sign language. It’s used mostly for deaf people, but I'm pretty down with it, too. I mean… This shitty box is pretty tiring to use all the time, so…”

Well… At least you kind of understand him now… “So… It’s like an Italian talking, but without the actual talking?”

As soon as you say that, you notice Dave trying to push back a fit of laughter. You hadn't really meant it like that. In fact, it was just what the image in your head was; and, quite honestly, you didn't see how it was all that funny. Sure, maybe it's worth a chuckle. But, apparently, Dave seems to think you'd hit comedy gold.

He motions for you to wait a moment and, once he finally calms down, manages to form a coherent reply. “No, not really. It’s more uniform than that. Although, again, that was a pretty creative was to explain it. It doesn't really follow the same grammar rules that apply when you’re speaking, either. It’s kind of, like, its own little language within a language, I guess…”

You nod understandingly. Honestly, you could really care less about all the grammar rules. You really just want to be able to figure out what he’s saying about a quarter of the time he’s conversing with you, to know what snide comments he occasionally makes while you’re reading his written responses.

“So… What I just did there is actually just two words. I mean… I guess you could count the optional question mark at the end, but I didn't do that. So, never mind, scratch that. That was a dumb statement. But, if you’re looking for the straight up translation, I said: you sign,” he replies patiently. In fact, when he’s telling you what he said, he even slows down his motions to show you what each meant. 

Again, you reply with an understanding nod; and, somehow, you find yourself becoming a bit more interested in all of it. You’re not one for knowing how things work; but, you _do_ find discovering things pretty fascinating. And, if it’s coming from him, you don’t think you’d even mind learning the technicalities of it. “That’s pretty neat.”

“It actually is.” Another small grin flashes across his face as he replies. “I just wanted to let you know. You just seem really confused whenever I do it, you know?”

“Completely.” Despite your usual aversion for getting into the nitty-gritty of things, you can’t help but find yourself drawn to this. Truthfully, it’s partially because it’s _him_ teaching it to you–it’s not you learning alone or from some boring ass adult. But, at the same time, it’s also truly captured your attention. It’s something new and different, something you’ve never seen before. “So… What about names?”

“You’re really interested in this, now, aren't you?” he asks, a bemused look on his normally passive face. “Well… You spell names. So, unless my name just up and changed itself in the past five seconds, I'm D-A-V-E.” As with the last explanation, he takes his time. He makes sure you know what each hand shape looks like. He even shows you how to spell your name. Then, once you’re finished, he asks, “You need to know anything else?”

“No… I think I'm good for now.”

“Well… If you’re ever in the mood for learning some more, I'm all for teaching you. In fact, it’d be a hell of a lot easier if I could just sign most of the time, seeing as I'm ready to fall asleep after an hour or two of this shitty box,” he replies with a shrug and what appears to be a yawn. “Speaking of which, I think I hear the bed calling me, so…”

He offers you a faint grin and, after stumbling to his feet, makes his way back to the guest bedroom.

You, meanwhile, can’t help but feel more than a little giddy. You can’t help but feel like you've just taken the first step into his world, like you're finally starting to get to know him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this, I didn't plan on putting in more sign. But, somehow, that fell through. So, yay. I guess this is a step back into the world of legitimate Mute!Dave? IDEK. Enjoy. Comment if you wish. Print it out and hang it in a public restroom. (No, I'm just kidding. It is a very VERY bad idea to print this out and hang it in a public restroom. Don't even hang it in a private restroom, actually. Well... If it's just you and, for some weird reason, you REALLY want to hang my mediocre writing in your bathroom, I guess you can...) Also, I AM NOT an expert on sign. I have stated this repetitively, but I want to make sure people are aware of that. I do a buttload of research; but, if I make a mistake, I didn't do so on purpose. Actually, if you find ANY mistakes, feel free to point them out!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name is Dave Strider.
> 
> Ten days ago, you were taken in by John Egbert–the same man who, weeks earlier, had also given you coffee and allowed you to warm yourself at the local dive bar. You’ve always found John interesting and attractive. But, now, after getting to know him a bit more, that slight interest has begun to morph into something much more.
> 
> You'd believed that you couldn’t possibly think about him any more than you had when you hadn’t really known him. Now, though, that theory has been completely blown out of the water. You can’t get his image and voice out of your head. You find yourself dreaming of him more and more often; and, you find the feelings you’ve harboured within you for so long–feelings, which, before, had only been slight feelings of romantic attraction–growing more and more wild. But, at the same time, you’re starting to realise that, as much as you hate to admit it, you don’t really know him. In addition to that realisation, is the recognition that you need to know him before you can blow him. (Also, that last line can be blamed entirely on the author.)

It’s about 11:00 at night when the sound of the front door slamming closed jars you from your sleep. You awake to find yourself sprawled out on the living room sofa; and, after a minute, remember you’d been waiting for John. He’d said he was going out for dinner with someone. He’d expressed his anxiety about it; and, in response, you promised to wait up for him. As he slumps into the adjacent armchair, however, you realise that you failed quite horribly at that “staying up” bit…

“How’d it go?” you ask, hoping to redeem yourself for falling asleep on him.

“It didn’t 'go' at all. They didn’t even show up,” he replies with a dejected sigh. “I waited. But, seeing as they never came, I ended up eating alone. The food didn’t even taste good.” He rolls his eyes and, after a moment of muttering to himself, loosens his tie. “Probably shouldn’t have expected much out of them, though…”

You can’t help but feel a little sorry for him. At the same time, though, you can’t help but notice your perfect chance. You can't help but revel in the fact that fate has thrown you the prefect chance; and, that, now, you just have to play it cool and take it slow… “There’re other gears in the machine, you know. I’m sure you’ll find one to match up with sometime soon. I mean… You’re a pretty fine guy, if you ask me.”

A small grin lights up his features. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dave.”

“That’s kind of what I’m here for,” you reply with a nervous grin. You can feel sweat beading on your brow; and, you’re not sure if it’s from the fire or from the way that very same fire reflects in his wild blue eyes. “I’m sure a lot of other guys… girls… A lot of other girls would find you attractive.”

He responds with one of his dweebish yet, somehow, charming laughs. “I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in guys. But, hey, if I were, I’d be fine with going out with you.”

You’re pretty sure it’s a joke; but, even so, you can’t help but feel your confidence rise a bit. Without any effort on your part, you've completely redeemed yourself from that potentially nasty slip-up. Now, you have to see about that whole thing about him being straight… “Well, I was pretty sure I wasn’t into guys, either…” Oh. Wait. No. That’s not what you meant to say…

To your surprise, though, he seems to take it as a joke. “I’m sure you’ve got all the men lining up for you, Dave.”

Having dodged another bullet, you let forth a relieved sigh and continue more carefully. “Yeah, well…” It’s time to change the topic. You’re not sure how much longer you can muse about this before it turns sour. You have the new topic on the tip of your tongue; yet, as you open your mouth, you freeze. Again, you feel sweat beading on your brow. You find yourself staring at his soft, perfectly messy black hair. (At times like this, you can’t help but thank your now-deceased brother for teaching you that shades could be used to keep the wanderings of your eyes secret.)

“Anyhow, I’m going to bed. I’ve had a long day…”

His voice throws you roughly back to reality. You want to protest. But, when you open your mouth, the exact opposite happens. “Hope you sleep well, then.” No… That’s not what you wanted to say. But it’s too late now.

He offers you a weary smile, nods, and rises from his seat.

You, meanwhile, listen to the sound of his footsteps fading away, up the stairs, off to his bedroom; and, after a few minutes of silent disappointment, you decide to follow suit. A sigh of frustrated resentment escapes you as you pull the quilt back up and, with time, fall into another restless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little update. I just wanted to give you all a bit from Dave's perspective. Sorry for jumping days so much; but, like I've said, most of my fics are probably more like little crap drabbles, so...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day twelve.
> 
> Ever since that odd conversation (the one which occurred last night and was detailed in the previous chapter), you’ve started question if you can actually say you’re definitely not into guys. You’ve never really tried it before; and, quite honestly, part of you wasn’t joking when you said you’d go out with Dave. In the words of many a great internet user: you cannot hold all these feels.
> 
> Your name is John Egbert,and you’re about to take the first step in shattering the preconceptions you’ve always carried about your own sexual preferences…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, hey. BEFORE you read this, I'd like to say this is me and my stupid fascination with medicine. I don't want to be a doctor (I'd probably be a pretty bad one, anyhow), but medicine's interesting. Anyhow, I've taken this whole mute!Dave on in one way (the last fic). This time, though, I wanted to try it the more medical (albeit, with a steampunk-ish twist) route. So, be warned, this chapter's got the medical spin to it. (If I made any mistakes, as per usual, tell me!)

He’s sitting in the armchair by the fire, haphazardly plucking away at the guitar you've given him. His sunglasses are set on the end table beside him, giving you a good view of his oddly appealing red eyes; and, a small hint of messiness has worked its way into his normally tidy hair. The red blazer you’d given him yesterday hangs open, while his wrinkled black tie dangles loosely to the side.

You want to talk to him, to say something. You want to start a conversation. But, somehow, you can’t. Instead, you only find yourself growing more and more fascinated with him–the enigmatic and unexpected house-mate.

“Dave?” you force yourself to speak, all the while reassuring yourself that you can’t possibly say anything terribly out of line. After all, if you’re speaking from your heart, nothing can go wrong. …Right?

You cut off your thoughts when he glances up at you and nods, signalling to you that he’s ready to listen. All you have to do now is say what’s on your mind. Say what you’re thinking; speak your feelings…

“What happened to your voice?”

As soon as you say it, you regret it. You wish that there were some sort of device–a set of turntables, a police box, a shiny silver car, anything–that could turn back time.

You cast a nervous look towards him, and it doesn't take much work for you to notice the expression of poorly veiled shock on his face.

“I…” he starts, then stops. His gaze wanders down, locking upon an unassuming section of carpet as he pensively runs his fingers through his hair.

“You don’t have to tell me. I'm sorry, it just kind of slipped out…” you grumble. As per usual, you make no attempt to hide your emotions. In fact, you’re sure that you’re positively emanating copious amounts of awkward embarrassment.

“Seeing as you’re the one taking care of me, I probably should…” he replies. The expression on his face remains the same, giving no indication of a negative or positive reaction. “I mean…” A loud sigh escapes him and, after a few minutes, he seems to come to a decision. He sets down the guitar and wanders over; then, after sitting in the space next to you on the sofa, he raises a nervously voiced question. “Are you sure you want to know?”

At this point, though, you’re starting to get the feeling that you’re not exactly ready to know what happened. The way he reacted told you loud and clear that it wasn't something that he was expecting you to say. In fact, you were pretty sure that he’d come to the conclusion that you wouldn't ask him that–that he'd thought he could forget about it around you. At the same time, though, you really are curious…

“Tell me what you’re comfortable telling me,” you reply, splitting the difference between your moral values and unabashed personal curiosity.

He nods slowly and, after a few seconds, pops open the two snaps holding the band around his neck, allowing them to hang freely from the odd device at the base of his throat.

It is at this point that you decide you’re probably not ready to see what happens next. You start to get the feeling that, whatever happens, it’s probably not going to be very pleasing on the eyes. You lock your gaze firmly on the ground and, until you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder a few seconds later, it stays that way. That gentle touch, though, prompts you to look up.

Your eyes immediately get drawn to the spot where he usually wears the peculiar device; and, to your halfway disturbed, halfway interested surprise, you find a hole. It's about as round as your little finger, and it seems to be purposefully healed that way. Fascination calls for you to look at it closer; courtesy begs you to leave it alone. However, before you can so much as consider your options, he grabs your wrist and pulls you in a bit closer.

Being completely unprepared for this, you end up falling up against his chest, your wrist still in his grasp; and, before you can even think about what’s going on, you recognise a steady, gentle breath against your hand. You slowly raise your gaze upwards, eventually recognising that the source is the spot at the base of his throat.

As soon as the realisation hits you (and, consequently, your facial expression), he releases his grip. He shows you the strange box long enough for you to register the inch and a half of downward curving tube sticking from the back; then, he signals to you that he’s returning it to its place. In response, you quickly redirect your gaze to the floor.

You hear the snaps pop shut and the crackling of the machine. Then, you hear what you've come to accept as his voice.

“I'm guessing you've seen enough?”

You nod.

“Aside from how it’s that way, you got any questions?”

For a moment, you consider the possibility that he’s offering you the opportunity to question him out of courtesy. One glance at the nervous, but slightly relieved face tells you, however, that he’s not. “So the box…?”

“This piece of shit has a few uses,” he replies before you can finish your question. Unlike most people who do that, though, he’s hit the inquiring nail on the head. “ I'm not sure how it does the whole talking business. That’s not really my thing. I just know it does some gross crap neither of us want to talk about, and it keeps my windpipe from shrinking. At least, that’s what the doctor said.”

Again, you nod. You realise now that you never really bothered to push yourself up, off of his chest. But, seeing as neither of you seem to care, you decide to stay put. “Well… I guess I should say thanks for telling me all this? I'm guessing it’s not something you hand out pamphlets for.”

His chest gently rises and falls as if he’s laughing, and the machine wavers in that now-familiar and, somehow, endearing way. “No, I don’t. You’re the only person who knows it, actually.”

Normally, you’d question that. However, seeing as it’s late at night and you’re just indecently comfortable, you don’t. Instead, you get yourself into a more comfortable position and rest your head back against his chest.

“You know, John… You’re pretty cool for a dorky pianist,” Dave comments absent-mindedly.

You can’t help but smile at the compliment. After all, the most enigmatically awesome guy you’ve ever known just complimented your coolness. “Well, for a guy I found beat up outside on my doorstep, you’re a pretty great, too,” you yawn.

Before you know it, you’re drifting to sleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing, combined with the rise and fall of his chest, have lulled you into a tired trance; and, as you fall into one of the most pleasant slumbers you’ve had in quite a while, you feel him pulling the blanket over you and him. You feel him sliding his hand into yours; and, unbeknownst to you, another of those rare, genuine grins spreads across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If, for some reason, you're interested... I've ~~crapped out~~ made some ~~crappy doodles~~ concept art. It can be found [**here**](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/post/40128647096/i-have-yet-again-doodled-extensively-in-school), and totally wasn't done during school. It can be enlarged if you click the image (I think). Yes, that's my blog.

**Author's Note:**

> _Comments are welcome! I'm all for constructive criticism and all that junk. Plain compliments are also fine! I try and reply to everything. Also, I suck at proofing. If you see a huge error or something, please point it out. There's a 100% chance it's me being stupid and not thoroughly proofing._


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